Page 25 of His Runaway Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #3)

CHAPTER 25

“ T his is ridiculous,” Daphne huffed. “I don’t want to do this. Can’t we go home?”

The carriage was a little too full. The family had decided to go together, which meant that there was Daphne, Emily, and Octavia on one bench, and Anna, Theodore, and Beatrice on the other.

The carriage was not really designed for six people. Every time Daphne breathed, an elbow stabbed her in the ribs.

A sense of unease had been building up in the pit of her stomach over the afternoon. She’d felt it as they all sat together over a late luncheon, everybody talking except her. She’d felt it as she stood in front of the mirror and watched herself getting dressed, her movements mechanical like a puppet’s.

Why did it feel so strange, being without Edward? It wasn’t as if they’d been joined at the hip. And really, what had happened between them? A few moments of intimacy, a few arguments, a few pleasant moments. Why should she feel bereaved without him?

It’s nonsense. You are nonsensical.

Anna sighed, finally glancing at Daphne. “We’ve talked about this, Daff. You have to show your face. You can’t just hide in the house. This won’t blow over, you know.”

“It will blow over,” Theodore remarked, his gaze fixed out of the window. “Society will move on. But it will move on without you, Daphne. Be under no illusions. No matter the circumstances under which a woman runs from her husband, Society will always side with him.”

A lump formed in Daphne’s throat. She leaned back in her seat as best as she could and closed her eyes.

“Was he cruel to you, Daphne?” Beatrice asked, speaking for the first time in a while.

“Cruel? No, he was just… cold. Sometimes, at least,” Daphne added, with a twinge of guilt.

It was dark in the carriage, the only light coming from the bouncing lantern hanging outside the window. The night was a cloudy one, with no moon or stars to be seen. It was cold, too, and Daphne found herself wishing with all her heart that she could be back at home, wrapped up and snug before a roaring fire.

Not just any home, she realized with a flare of misery. Thornbridge.

Beatrice nodded, as if learning something she already knew.

“I don’t know much about Edward,” she said. “He and Jane weren’t married long enough for him to properly feel like one of the family.”

Beatrice had not spoken much about her former brother-in-law, despite Anna pressing her. So, when she began to speak now, everybody leaned forward, paying attention. She looked at nobody in particular, her gaze fixed on her hands in her lap.

“I asked Jane once, shortly before she married him, whether she loved him,” Beatrice continued, a furrow appearing between her eyebrows. “She said no. At least, she said, ‘Not like a wife loves a husband.’ They were always friends, and she thought they’d be a good match. Jane always said that she was not made to fall in love, and didn’t particularly want to. Sometimes, I think she would have liked to be in love, to feel what came so easily to others. Even so, they were happy. She was excited about her baby. And Edward was kind to her. She said that he was a good man.”

Beatrice paused, gathering her thoughts, and gave a little nod, as if confirming something she was going over in her head.

“Yes,” she murmured, half to herself. “A good man, that’s what Jane said. A very good man.”

There was a short silence after this.

Daphne shifted, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

What should I say next? Should I say anything?

Should I not have left him?

As Daphne was deliberating, Octavia leaned forward, clearing her throat.

“That’s enough of that subject,” she said severely. “We are here to support Daphne tonight. She’ll show her face, perhaps dance a few sets, eat something, drink something, and then leave. We’ll all leave together, and then Society will see that she isn’t hiding her presence in town. They’ll see that we have nothing at all to hide.”

“There’ll be gossip,” Emily pointed out, matter-of-factly. “Probably to her face. To our faces, in fact. Everybody is going to have something to say.”

The dread in Daphne’s stomach intensified. She shifted, trying to swallow down her fear.

It’s a party. It’s just a party. How many parties have I been to?

This one, she suspected, was going to be different.

“My friend is the host,” Anna said, changing the subject. “Mrs. Whitmore. She’s a pleasant woman, very kind and understanding. When I asked for an invitation to be extended to Daphne, she agreed at once. She’ll help keep an eye on things. But, Daphne, you must keep a low profile. Don’t be too loud, or shocking, or talkative. Simply glide around like the Duchess you are, and act as though you’re too haughty to talk to anyone.”

Daphne grimaced. “I’m not good at being haughty.”

Anna chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you. Stick with us, and all will be well.”

I wish I could believe that.

The carriage slowed and turned, beginning to rattle its way up a steep, wide driveway, well-graveled and raked, joining a line of other glowing carriages. At the top of the driveway was a large house, windows all lit up. Even from the bottom of the path, Daphne could hear chatter, laughter, and music drifting out of the wide-open front doors.

“Mrs. Whitmore’s ballroom is the largest in London,” Anna explained. “We’ll walk down a marble hallway once we greet her at the door, and then down a flight of stairs into the ballroom. Just so you know where you’ll be going, Daff.”

“Everything will be fine,” Emily said, smiling mechanically.

Daphne still did not believe them.

It seemed to take an age before their carriage rolled to a halt altogether before the wide front steps. Squeezing out of the cramped interior took a few moments, and the cold hit Daphne’s exposed skin almost immediately when she stepped outside. She pulled at her neckline self-consciously.

It wasn’t a very shocking dress, although the neckline scooped down and around her collarbones, skimming the tips of her shoulders. It was a pastel-mint color, an unusual shade and very becoming, but otherwise cut simply and demurely. She didn’t glitter with diamonds the way Anna and Theodore did, nor was she studded with emeralds like Beatrice. Even so, Daphne felt as though all eyes were on her.

I want to go home.

She did not fling herself back into the carriage, which felt like a success. She followed the others up the steps, to where Mrs. Whitmore waited.

She was a tall, handsome woman, widowed as everyone knew, and probably the richest woman in London. Her red hair glinted in the candlelight, and her shrewd grey eyes swept over the group. She greeted everyone with the greatest courtesy, one by one, and only hesitated for a tenth of a second when she saw Daphne.

“Your Grace,” she said, smiling faintly. “It is a great honor to have the Duchess of Thornbridge here. I am a great friend of your sister’s, and I hope that you and I will become friends, too.”

Daphne managed a smile and a curtsey. “I hope so, too.”

“I hope you enjoy yourself, Your Grace,” Mrs. Whitmore said, her sparkling eyes still watching Daphne with intrigue. “Do feel free to come and speak to me if anything is amiss, or if you require anything. Anything at all.”

A faint pressure on Daphne’s hand, and then Mrs. Whitmore turned to greet her next guests.

Emily’s hand snaked into Daphne’s. “Nobody will even notice us come in,” she whispered. “I’ll find us some seats and some refreshments, and we can just sit down and make fun of what everybody else is wearing.”

Daphne smiled wanly. “Thank you, Emmie. I’d like that.”

As Anna had warned, the hallway led to a wide landing, with gleaming steps leading down into a veritable sea of people. Waves of heat rushed up to meet them, as well as a cacophony of laughter and chatter, swirled by the constant shuffle of slippers on stone and the swishing of skirts. Music curled around the noise, drifting up to hang around the chandelier.

A footman by the door looked them over briefly, cleared his throat, and bellowed out their names to the crowd.

“The Duke and Duchess of Langdon! The Duchess of Blackwood! Lady St. Maur and her daughter, Miss Belmont! The Duchess of Thornbridge!”

Daphne knew at once that the herald had made a mistake. She ought to have been announced earlier, along with Anna, Theodore, and Beatrice.

It hardly mattered, though, because as the sound of her title died down, a hush fell over the ballroom.

Well, not over the entire ballroom. The room was huge, the music was still playing, and most of the guests would not have heard the herald yell out the titles.

Enough did, however. It seemed like hundreds of people, all clustered near the doorway, turned and stared up at Daphne, their eyes goggling.

They know . They know about it all. About my failed wedding ceremony, about my scandal, the rushed wedding to Edward. And now they know that I’ve left him. Not a single secret of mine is kept hidden.

Emily’s hand, still laced with hers, tightened.

“You aren’t alone, Daff,” she whispered. “Come on, let’s get it over with.”

As a group, they descended the stairs. Whispers rose in a susurrus. Daphne kept her head high and tried not to notice.

To start with, the crowd parted to let them pass by, like a Red Sea of gossip. But the people closed in behind them, and gradually the noise started up again. People began to jostle Daphne and the others.

They barely made it a quarter of the way across the ballroom—there were chairs set out for matrons at the opposite end of the room, by the refreshments table—when Beatrice hissed, stumbling. Her hand flew to her rounded belly.

Anna noticed at once, frowning. “Beatrice? Are you well?”

“It’s too hot,” Beatrice murmured, “and crowded. I am sorry, but I must go back. I’ll find a quiet room to sit in until things quieten down.”

Anna bit her lip, glancing between her friend and her sister.

“Go with Beatrice, Anna,” Daphne said. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll go with her,” Theodore said firmly. “Stay with your sister, Anna.”

He offered Beatrice his arm, and she took it gratefully.

The four of them moved off, trying desperately to stick together in the jostle of the crowds. The heat was intense, and Daphne felt sweat bead on her neck and trickle down her back.

There were plenty of stares thrown her way. Long, calculating looks from disapproving faces. The noise of chatter pervaded the whole room, of course, but somehow the sibilant whispers still made their way to Daphne’s ears.

“What is she doing here?”

“I wouldn’t show my face in Society ever again if I were her.”

“Hear, hear. Modern women have no shame.”

“That husband of hers will come and drag her home by her ear soon, I wager. She’ll learn the way of things.”

Daphne clenched her jaw and concentrated on not responding.

They were getting to the middle of the ballroom when a cluster of people descended upon Anna and Octavia. Daphne faintly recognized them as family friends, although she did not miss the quick, disapproving looks thrown at her .

In a trice, the crowd had separated their group in two. Octavia and Anna were left to talk to the family friends, civility keeping them prisoner, while Daphne and Emily were rapidly pushed away by the crush.

Emily, faintly panicked, stood up on her slippered tiptoes, trying in vain to look over the heads of the crowd.

“Mama? Anna!” she called, waving her arm. “We’ll meet you by the refreshments table!”

“Did they hear us?” Daphne asked.

Emily shrugged. “No way of telling. We’ll never get back to them now. Heavens, this is such a crush. I hate parties.”

Hand in hand—Daphne was now terrified that her sister would be torn away from her, too—they pushed onwards through the crowd.

If we can get to some seats, all will be well. We’ll drink some champagne, and things will start to feel better. I’ll dance just once, with Theo, as Anna told me to, and then we can leave. And then my first appearance in Society after my wedding will be over, and that will be that. I’ll be safe. It’ll be over.

She swallowed hard, tightening her grip on Emily’s hand, and tried to repeat to herself over and over that all would be well.

And then the Misses Jenkins stepped in their way.

There were three Jenkins girls, all very pretty, all resembling each other enough to almost be considered triplets. This was their first Season, and the girls remained unmarried. It was generally thought that their faces were not pretty enough and their fortunes were not large enough to make up for their needling personalities.

Daphne had never personally disliked the Jenkins girls, and she privately thought that they were simply doing what they could to marry well and find their places in an ever-shifting world, as well as getting out from under their overbearing parents’ thumbs. They were referred to as Miss Jenkins, Miss Minerva, and Miss Clementine.

“How lovely to see you in Society again, Daphne,” Miss Jenkins fluted. It was lucky that she was the eldest and could be referred to as simply Miss Jenkins, as Daphne happened to know that her first name was Ermingarde, and Miss Jenkins thoroughly hated it. “Although, I suppose it’s Your Grace , now.”

Daphne smiled tentatively. “It is, but I hate the title. You can still call me Daphne. We are the same age, after all.”

Miss Minerva and Miss Clementine exchanged meaningful glances, but they let their older sister do the talking.

Miss Jenkins pursed her lips. “I should congratulate you on your good fortune. Not every woman has the luck to marry a duke. I, for one, would settle for a plain, old lord.”

“I’d settle for a Sir ,” Miss Clementine chimed in and was promptly elbowed in the side by her sister.

Daphne swallowed. “Well, once I’m settled, I’ll throw a proper ball, and you ladies can come along. I’ll invite as many eligible bachelors as I can, and you can see who you can meet.”

Miss Jenkins paused, whatever snide comment she was planning to make quickly forgotten. “Really? You’d do that for us?”

Daphne shrugged. “We women must marry, I suppose. You and I were friends, once, weren’t we?”

Miss Jenkins bit her lip and glanced away, twisting around to look at her sisters as if for support.

“We were friends, once,” she murmured. “But that was a long time ago. It hardly matters, though. Why don’t you come sit with us?”

“We’re expecting to be joined by my mother and sister,” Emily spoke up. “We shan’t stay long. We’ll find seats somewhere and sit quietly until it’s time to leave.”

Miss Jenkins continued to chew on her lip. “Very well.”

Daphne hid a smile. In her experience, the best way to dodge forthcoming nastiness from another person was to be kind to them. It worked almost every time.

“We should go,” she said, with just the right note of apology.

They stepped past the Jenkins girls and were ready to disappear into the crowd again when Miss Clementine spoke up.

“I’m glad you left him, Daphne! It was nothing more than he deserved.”

Daphne stopped dead, a cold feeling spreading through her.

Emily shot her an anxious look and tugged on her hand in vain. “Come on, Daff, we’re nearly there.”

Daphne pulled her hand free of her sister’s and turned back to face the Jenkins girls. “What do you mean?” she heard herself ask, her voice strained.

Miss Clementine looked a little nervous, and her sister elbowed her in the side, hard. They both looked at Miss Jenkins to respond.

She sighed, shaking her head. “Come, Daphne, don’t be coy. It doesn’t suit you.”

“I don’t understand what you are trying to say,” Daphne responded hotly. “Tell me, what do you mean? As far as I know, you three haven’t even met my husband, and you certainly don’t know him well enough to decide what he deserves or not.”

Miss Jenkins eyed her contemptuously. “Oh, Daphne, you still are a little fool, aren’t you? They called him the Cursed Duke, you know.”

“Cursed? Oh, we believe in curses now, do we?”

Miss Jenkins rolled her eyes. “No. But in my experience, folks generally bring their own luck upon themselves.”

Daphne’s fingers clenched into fists. “Do explain.”

Miss Minerva stepped forward, tugging on her sister’s sleeve. “Let’s go, Ermie,” she whispered. “She’s half-mad, look at her.”

Miss Jenkins yanked her arm away, taking a step towards Daphne. “If you must know,” she said smoothly, “and I cannot believe that you do not know, the Duke of Thornbridge is rather famously low on luck. His mother died, his wife died, and his second wife has just abandoned him. And, if my sources are correct—which they are—his stepmother is leaving him, too. It’s plain as day that the man is cursed one way or the other.”

Daphne gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Well, I can tell you that is not true. Lady Clarissa would never abandon him, and you may tell that to your sources .”

She knew that her voice was pitching higher and higher, but she simply did not care.

Emily tugged at her sleeve, whispering urgently, “Daphne, stop it! People are looking. Let’s go, shall we? Leave Miss Jenkins alone.”

Daphne shook off her sister’s arm and took a step closer, pointing a finger to Miss Jenkins’ face. “You listen to me, you wet rag of a woman. My husband is not cursed. I can assure you that he is not cursed. You, however, might well end up cursed. How would you like that? I’ll curse you myself!”

There was a brief silence, which Daphne assumed was due to her raised voice.

A fraction of a second too late, she realized that all had gone quiet around her because the Jenkins girls were staring over her head at someone behind her.

“Why, thank you, wife,” came a low, deep voice. “You make an excellent duchess, I must say.”